


Bird Eater

by SkeletalConstellation



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Angels, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Monsters, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Recovered Memories, Slow Burn, Spiders, Web Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21149882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkeletalConstellation/pseuds/SkeletalConstellation
Summary: Martin Blackwood stared in awe at the giant, feathery thing caught in the even larger spiderweb.Well, he didn't stare at the web. He knew well enough it was supposed to be there, between the ancient bricks of the long-abandoned building- after all, he'd put it there.Decades since the Magnus Institute was destroyed and its Archivist disappeared, the monsters it committed to memory still roam the world, lying in wait in the corners of humanity- and occasionally they meet. Old memories are unearthed, along with a strange sense of humanity thought to be lost forever.





	1. The Feathered Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so  
This is gonna be a weirdass fic, not gonna lie, but ever since I caught up I've been dying to write something for it. So, enjoy, I have no idea how long this thing will be but given my track record its probably gonna be pretty lengthy  
Also I love me some monsters and this takes place about 30 years post-canon.

Martin Blackwood stared in awe at the giant, feathery  _ thing _ caught in the even larger spiderweb.

Well, he didn't stare at the web. He knew well enough it was supposed to be there, between the ancient bricks of the long-abandoned building- after all, he'd put it there. Well, kind of. The spiders had built it, for the most part, he'd only instructed its construction as nothing more than an architect for his eight-legged builders, but at the end of the day it was still  _ his _ web.

Regardless, the interesting thing was not the web itself, but whatever the monstrosity tangled within its threads was.

The body of the thing (if it even  _ had _ a body) was entirely enshrouded by wings, melting from an ivory white at the arm to a pitch, voidlike black at the tips. Martin counted at least six of the huge limbs, feathers ruffled by the strands that trapped them. Curiously, each seemed to be covered in a myriad of scars in all sorts of sizes, ranging from the size of a tiny scratch to the length of his (human) forearm. Wherever these scars were the feathers parted, seeming to edge along the unusual slashes in its skin.

The huge thing in the web was almost disturbingly still. No rise and fall of breath, no pulse of a heartbeat, no sign of life in its body. 

For a moment, Martin thought it was dead.

Then he stepped on a trigger strand, shaking the web ever-so-slightly.

All at once, the 'scars' blinked open into hundreds of thousands of eyes, ranging from the size of a pinhead to the size of a dinner plate and in every color imaginable, their irises darting around and pupils shrinking in terror. The wings began to struggle against their sticky bonds, but the web held fast, only serving to further ensnare the unfortunate beast. It soon tired, heavy breath and trembling wings tremoring through its bonds.

Martin couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for it, whatever it was. 

Maybe it was some scrap of humanity that he'd managed to cling to, even after the spiders had claimed him for their own. Maybe it was the monster in him recognizing another monster in pain. Maybe it was the strange feeling of distant familiarity that he could not shake.

Whatever it was, he found his other limbs uncurling from his back and carrying him up the web, with the intention of freeing the monster.

Those multicolored eyes focused on him as he started cutting the webs and peeling them off of the thing, unblinking except when the pocket knife was closest to them. It was slow going- whatever it was, it was pretty thoroughly stuck- but Martin was persistent, and soon he cut through the final thread keeping the thing suspended. 

It fell to the ground with a hard enough thud to make Martin wince, kicking up a cloud of dust with it. As the dust settled, the thing seemed to have vanished with it, leaving something even more puzzling to Martin than whatever the monster had been.

There, on the ground below, was a man.

Carried by his arachnoid legs, Martin clamoured down what was left of the now-ruined web, slowly approaching the figure lying motionless on the floor. 

The man was gaunt, eyes and cheeks hollowed to a concerning degree and limbs stick-thin and frail. His grizzled brown hair was overgrown and as faded as his heavily scarred skin, which bore a sickly greyish sheen to it. Perhaps at one point the clothes the man wore had fit him, but the atrophy his body had fallen victim to had rendered them far too large, faded cardigan hanging loose around his thin frame.

He was unconscious when Martin reached him, but if the rise and fall of his chest was anything to go off of. Hopefully, if Martin was patient, the mystery man would wake up on his own accord and Martin would be able to gauge what exactly he  _ was _ in the first place. He'd just have to wait here-

"Oh Mister Spiiiiiiider!"

Shit.

He thought he'd managed to give the hunters the slip when he'd last seen them two weeks ago, but it seemed like they'd chosen the worst time to show up at his doorstep. Seems he hadn't thrown them off his trail as well as he thought.

"Come out Mr. Spider, it's  _ rude _ to keep guests waiting!"

He span around to hide himself away in his favorite, highest corner of his web, but some guilty tug of his fragmented conscience made him turn back to the unconscious stranger. He could hear the hunters in the maze of crumbling stone and plaster he'd claimed as his home, the taunting voices of the old vampire hunter and the serial killer's daughter giving away how close they were to finding him. He could leave the stranger behind and escape- but how would he fare against the hunters in his state? He was a monster too, or so it seemed, and those two were concerningly trigger-happy in regards to such entities. Leaving him was as good as a death sentence.

And so, with a frustrated sigh, he lifted the frail man into his arms and made a mad dash for his hiding spot. 

Martin hated to admit it, but he was glad that his unexpected guest was underweight- if he hadn't been, he might have not been able to climb the cable-esque webs fast enough. He just managed to tuck himself and his 'guest' into his favorite dark corner when the hunters burst into the room. From his vantage point, he watched their torch illuminate what was left of his web, relieved to see their hesitation with coming any closer to the sticky strands that still covered the room. The old man mumbled something about setting the whole place on fire (Martin felt his heart skip a beat at the suggestion) but eventually the two lost interest, deciding to search the rest of the building for their 'Mr. Spider'. Hopefully they'd lose interest quickly enough and move on to the next unfortunate monster to get on their radar.

His moment of relief was cut short by a soft gasp from behind him, a sound that made the hair on his neck stand on end.

The stranger he'd rescued was awake, and he was looking at Martin with sheer terror.


	2. Cobweb Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Sims awakens in what could be considered his own personal hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now Jon's POV! This will probably switch back and forth throughout the story.

Jonathan Sims awoke to a nightmare that seemed to have crawled from what fragments of human memory he had left. 

It came in the form of a complete stranger, and of his eight segmented legs that were  _ far _ too familiar. Jon's fear was cemented when he realized his hands were stuck fast to the floor below him.

Well, he  _ thought _ it was the floor.

Until he glanced down at his bonds, and found himself to be suspended about 7 meters in the air by a net made of a silken snare. 

He made a soft sound of terror as the adrenaline pulsed through his human form, raw and unfamiliar from his years as part of Beholding. He immediately regretted it as the spider-thing turned to face him, a pitying look in his- no,  _ its  _ eyes. Whatever this creature was, it was undoubtedly part of the Web; whatever sympathy he might feel from its expression was nothing more than a ruse, a manipulation meant to lead him deeper into this hellish trap. He supposed the strange, unplaceable familiarity Jon felt towards the spider-thing was part of the web’s manipulating power, too- what else could it be?

He opened his mouth to scream, but not a sound escaped his throat before the creature clapped a (thankfully  _ human _ ) hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” it whispered, “but I need you to be quiet.”

Instantly his voice died in his throat as the Web’s power worked into his psyche, proving his own weakness to him- he’d usually be able to pull some answers out of another being before they managed to shut him up. Then again, the Web had always been a weakness of his, playing into a particular part of his human childhood that stubbornly refused to fade into oblivion like the rest of his mortal memories had on the day of his rebirth into the Eye. 

The spider-thing glanced around cautiously as Jon’s scream faded to silence, then back to him, stepping forward on the silvery web and (much to Jon’s chagrin) putting even less space between him and it. “I’m not going to hurt you,” it whispered, voice barely masking its own fear for… whatever it was afraid of; Jon didn’t have the energy to Know the answer at the moment. “But there’s something in here that will  _ if they hear you.  _ I know, you’re probably scared, and- and you probably have questions, and I  _ promise _ I’ll answer any questions you have, but first we have to wait until it’s safe. Do you understand?”

Jon slowly nodded, even as he felt his body quake uncontrollably from the proximity of those black, hairy limbs that kept the creature suspended on its horrible web. It seemed relieved by his agreement, stepping away from him silently and carefully climbing through the topmost layers of its gargantuan net. 

It wasn’t long until Jon heard the footsteps and muffled voices of whatever it was the spider was so scared of passing by the room. If he concentrated, he could watch them through their own eyes- but that required a certain clarity of mind he couldn’t quite muster given his current proximity to his worst fear. What he could gleen from Knowing was that they were malicious and, unless his senses failed him, they were under the influence of the Hunt, validating the spider-thing's fearful demeanor.

They passed by the room again, their jeering voices echoing past the two entities hanging above them, and though their taunts were directed at Jon's captor he couldn't help the fresh spike of terror that burned through his veins like ice. 

"You can hide away now,  _ Mr. Spider, _ but we'll be back- and you can't hide forever!"

And with that, they were gone as quickly as they had seemingly appeared, two of their words burning in Jon's skull.

Mr. Spider.

_ Mister Spider. _

The incident from his human childhood came flooding back as his eyes fell upon the horrible legs that sprouted from the spider-thing's back, as black and hairy as he remembered, the familiarity of that life-altering moment lining up sickeningly with the one he was currently living. Even now he could see it, his childhood bully following the wordless command of the book, those same horrible arms pulling him through the final page. 

His breath was tight in his body, and he could imagine that  _ thing _ that now crawled towards him reaching out at any moment, striking him down in his weakened state. As it approached, he rallied his strength, preparing to fight back with every ounce of power Beholding granted him.

"Okay, it's safe now, you can… you can speak," it murmured, Jon's voice suddenly coming back online as the Web released its hold.

"Stay back," he growled, feeling two of his wings unfurling from his back to shield him from the monster that now gave him that infuriating pitying look. 

"I'm not going to hurt y-"

" _ STAY BACK." _

The spider-creature recoiled at Jon's raised voice, lending him just the advantage he needed. What once were scars gained over his time at the Magnus Institute opened into dozens of eyes, ensnaring the monster in his gaze. The creature froze, cowering back as he made his attempt to turn the tables.

"Now," he murmured, staring unblinking into the thing's eyes, " _ What  _ are you, and  _ where _ am I?"

The thing made no attempt to fight his demand off, giving into his influence immediately and without resistance.

"My name is Martin Blackwood, and this," he gestured to the room around him, "is what's left of the Magnus Institute."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! What could have happened in 30 years? Only time will tell.


	3. The Statement of Martin Blackwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has questions. Martin has answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for a brief mention of suicide in this chapter

The stranger, who'd yet to be so polite as the give Martin his name (though in this forsaken world, he wasn't too surprised), stared at him with far too many eyes locked unmoving on his own. He'd been that way for a solid five minutes since Martin had told him their current location, his face a mixture of disbelief, distrust, and deep worry. 

"That… that can't be right," he at long last mumbled, blinking his multitude of eyes in a wave of small movement that was,in Martin's opinion, quite creepy- though, that pretty much went for the rest of him, too. "This can't… it's not really the Magnus Institute, is it?"

Martin nodded solemnly, and the strange man moved his free hand over his face in a gesture of despair. "How long have I been gone?" He whispered to himself. Martin, of course, didn't answer.

He tried to step closer, offer a comforting word or two to the man, but his wings flared again and his eyes went straight back to glaring daggers at the Web avatar. "I told you to stay back,  _ Martin." _

Martin froze, then stepped back again-  _ baby steps, Martin,  _ he reminded himself,  _ he's scared- _ raising his hands in the universal gesture of good intentions. "Right, I'll stay right here… you're, um, an avatar of the Eye, right? I mean, I'm just guessing from the, uh, the eyes…"

The man nodded slowly, his glare melting from angered to quizzical, to Martin's relief.  _ Baby steps. _

"I'm going to make a wild guess and say you haven't been…  _ around  _ for the last, uh, three or so decades, given you didn't know about the Magnus Institute… closing down, so you probably curious about that whole thing-"

"I am," the man interrupted flatly.

"-which is why I'm more than happy to tell you my own account of what happened, to- to clarify things for you."

For the first time since Martin had found him in his web, the man looked at him with an expression he could almost describe as hopeful. His monochrome wings untucked from around his face, a moment of hesitant vulnerability that Martin counted as a small victory. "... this isn't a trick, right?"

Martin shook his head, lowering himself to the man's level and tucking his arachnoid limbs away to lend himself the air of humanity. "Well, you're from the Eye, so if my knowledge of you is correct I can't exactly, you know, lie to you if you ask me what happened, right? So just… just ask me your question, and I'll answer as best I can, okay?"

The man nodded, clearing his throat. Martin heard a mechanical  _ click _ , then the whirr of machinery coming from beside him. He didn't have to look to know he was being recorded on tape.

In as calm and clear a voice someone in his condition could muster, the man spoke.

"What happened to the Magnus Institute?"

Martin felt the gaze of the Eye pierce through his body, the words tumbling from his lips before he could consider what he was saying.

"It's funny, it's sometimes easy to forget what this place once was, which is just… well, it's  _ bizarre _ , to say the least, given what this place used to be, what prestige its name used to carry. But, well, none of that mattered in the end.

"My memory is… well, it's not what it once was. I suppose both age and the spiders did that to me- I mean, if you live a life of lies and manipulation, you start to doubt your own memories, eventually. I'm actually surprised that I'm certain on as much as I am, that I haven't completely lost myself within the tangled web of distrust and misguiding. I guess it doesn't really matter in the end- the things I  _ do _ remember about this place will never leave me, not as long as I stay living.

"I was still working here when the archives were destroyed, though I wasn't in the building at the time- in fact, I later found out, nobody was. Well, not  _ nobody.  _ The Archivist was here, or so I heard, all alone amidst all the files and artefacts at about three in the morning. Who, exactly, the Archivist was at the time, I couldn't tell you… his face has long since faded from my mind over the years, almost like… like a badly-developed Polaroid. Just a silhouette of a memory still stuck within my mind. But, his face doesn't matter. What matters is that  _ he  _ was the one who locked himself in those archives at three in the morning one particularly dreary January night and set a match to the entire thing, with himself inside."

The man's eyes widened, but he said nothing, so Martin took it as a signal to keep going.

"I remember being woken up by… I think her name was Basira, she called me that night, told me to read the news. You wouldn't believe how the windows glowed in those pictures, the smell of smoke that seemed to carry over the whole damn city. The firefighters managed to put it out before the building burnt to the ground but, well, the inside didn't quite fair as well as the exterior. Next to nothing remained of the Magnus Institute or its Archivist, nothing but burnt case files and melted tapes.

"So, that's what happened here," Martin concluded, glancing up at his guest, "but I'm going to go out on a limb and say you still want to know more."

The man nodded, leaning forward with an emotion Martin could almost describe as morbid enthusiasm and curiosity. "What happened afterwards? I mean, I don't entirely remember an avatar of the Web who quite matched your personal description, much less one living in a destroyed Institute. What followed that night?"

"Well," Martin responded, wracking his brain for the words needed to convey his experience, "After this place burnt down, and the Eye's avatar disappeared, all hell sort of just… broke loose, in a sense. You know, I never realized how much the Institute kept the other powers in check until it was gone. Their respective followers started to make their moves on this world, terrorizing civilians and attempting rituals with no one left to stop them. The Eye certainly couldn't prevent it from happening, not while lacking it's Archivist and it's institute- in a sense, it was blind. It wasn't long before the followers of the fears started becoming more brazen with their encroachment on the world, filling in all the gaps and niches the Eye's disappearance had opened up. I mean, it didn't take long for the web to claim  _ me _ as an avatar after the Archivist was out of the way-which is what I am now, all these years later, and plan on remaining as.

"You know, it's almost funny," Martin chuckled humorlessly, staring at his hands as the words slowed their steady pull from his throat. "I spent four years of my life unable to escape this place, and once I finally did, what I do? I come crawling back here. Guess I'll never escape, not really, but… I'm not sure I really want to. Not anymore."

He trailed off into silence, and a couple seconds later there was another click, and the tape stopped whirring in its reel. 

"I… I see," the stranger murmured, standing up after having recovered enough strength to tear his body off the sticky threads that had held him. Martin looked up slowly, confused. Had he only imagined the man was as gaunt as he thought before? Although he was still thin, his eyes were unsunken, and his cheeks just a little less hollowed than he remembered. Six feathery wings gracefully unfurled from his back, positioning themselves seemingly for flight.

"Thank you Martin. That's all I needed to know," he murmured, looking towards the sky from the hole in Martin's roof.

"Wait! You didn't tell me your-"

The man took off, as Martin crawled after him, unable to get to the roof in time to stop him.

From the roof, he watched the owl-like creature fly away, easily gliding on silent wings into the starlit night.

"...You didn't tell me your name…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, poor Martin, can't get a straight answer out of the weird birdman who fell into his house


	4. Noctua

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Archivist rejoices in his return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter this time, next chapter will probably be similarly short before resuming my usual length/longer. TW for injury this chapter.

_ In the deep blackness of a moonless night, the Archivist watched over London. _

_ He made no sound as the wind carried him over the city, his unblinking gaze peering through all those who dared walk the streets at this hour, scoping out those who thought they were safe in their beds, searching for a nightmare to hunt down and tear from the psyche of its keeper. _

_ Another bad dream, another drop in the ocean of information his beloved Beholding kept guard of. He'd given his own memories, good and horribly bad, to his God, letting them wash away in the tide of horrors the other Fears instilled upon their respective victims and followers. From the waters of knowledge he'd been cleansed and reborn, learning to sail upon the waves that once threatened to swallow him whole- and now, upon his return to the world, he dove through them as gleeful as a moon-drunk moth bathes within the moonlight. He considered himself beyond that of the other fears- for where they had to instill their own terror within their victims, he had to only wait to rip that same fresh nightmare from their throats and leave himself in its place.  _

_ Nothing could dampen the pure euphoria of that moment in the sky, Seeing the troubled minds of those unfortunate enough to have survived. _

_ Nothing except the fleeting thought of the creature that called itself Martin Blackwood, and the way it pulled upon the smallest ripple of a memory lost within the tide of Beholding. _

_ He didn't mean to grasp at the memory of that soft face, somehow gentle despite the marks years of hardship (or perhaps mourning) had wrought upon it, but it snagged in his mind as his circling flight brought him over the wreckage of the Magnus Institute, a glint of silver within the broken roof. _

_ As the memory caught within his mind, it pulled with it the rest of Beholding’s wisdom, the whole of its vast and nigh-infinite knowledge crashing down upon him in a crushing wave that threatened to pull him under and consume him. _

_ He shrieked in agony as infinite knowledge spilt into his mind all at once, threatening to split his skull in half as he fought against it. _

_ In his pain, he could not fly, and he plummeted to the street below with a sickening crunch of torn flesh and broken bone. _

_ He lay there, stone still, as pain made the edges of his vision blur and fade into dangerous blackness. His form rendered human and mortal once again, he could feel the void coming in to claim him, a deceptively gentle End in spite of the throbbing pain in his limbs. _

_ Right before his mind gave in, he thought he felt the soft touch of tiny clawed feet on his hand. _

“Poor fool,”  _ a gentle voice sighed. _

_ Then all went black.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Careful Jon, your Icarus is showing


	5. Arachni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his web, Martin dreams of the past.

_ Martin could feel the way the mattress shifted as Jon sat up in bed, despite the hour being far too early for work.  _

_ Blearily, he reached around his waist, pulling him back next to him with a huff of sleepy defiance against whatever called his Archivist from his side.  _

"Where're y'going… c'mere…"  _ he mumbled against the well-worn shirt Jon was wearing. He could hear Jon chuckle, softer than soft, and felt him run a hand through his hair.  _

_ "I have to go," he whispered, and in spite of his gentle tone, Martin could swear he could hear that certain solemn resignation Jon always had when he was about to do something incredibly stupid and potentially suicidal to save the world from whatever monster was threatening it this week. "Don't wait up for me, alright?" _

"Jon…"  _ Martin sighed, holding onto the warm shape a little tighter.  _ "You're not runnin' off t'do something idiotic and dangerous again, right…?"

_ The hand in his hair moved to his cheek, its burn-scarred fingers gently rubbing slow circles over his skin in an attempt to comfort him. "Not anymore idiotic or dangerous as usual, sweetheart. But it has to be done." _

_ Martin closed his eyes, memorizing the feeling of the irregular swirls and ridges of scar tissue on that hand, forever marred by a prior brazen bid for knowledge.  _ "Just…" _ he sighed, feeling himself concede to whatever Jon was about to do. _

"Just don't die, okay? Please, just- don't leave me alone again, I… I don't know if I can take being alone again right now."

_ "Oh Martin," Jon sighed, and Martin's heart skipped a beat as he felt ash against his cheek where Jon's fingers had been, smelled the stench of melting plastic and charred flesh. His eyes opened up on the burnt face of the Archivist, his exposed teeth twisted into a skeletal grin. "You know that's not how  _ that _ ended." _

Martin woke with a start, gasping in a breath of dusty air as the memory played over and over in his mind, slowly fading back into nothingness as he tried to consciously remember what it was about.

He groaned as it disappeared- whatever that nightmare was, he  _ knew _ it was the same one that had replayed in his mind every night since… well, since the fire happened. It was routine, like clockwork, so he ignored it.

He didn't need to look at the alarm clock hanging within his hammock-web to know what time it was- it was two thirty-six in the morning, the same time his nightmare happened every night.

The same time he'd left Martin alone again.

_ No, _ he thought, rubbing his temples.  _ We do NOT think about him _ . 

He stood up on legs more befitting of a monstrous bird-eating spider, stretching his back with a satisfying crack of his spine- a small reminder he wasn't young anymore, and certainly not getting any younger.

Sitting back in his nest, he watched the spiders rebuild his previously wrecked web. He had to say, the years  _ had _ allowed him to amass quite the collection of arachnids- he could see orbweavers building the framework of the net, the gaps filled in by trapdoor spiders- his current favorite nest structure was inspired by the interior of a trapdoor spider's trap, hung with wide nets to provide an illusion of levels. True, it wasn't entirely practical, but he thought it was quite nice in its own special way. It was homey, in a strange sort of spidery sense of the word.

Watching the spiders weave, Martin could forget he even had a nightmare.

At least, until an ear-splitting shriek pierced the quiet walls, followed by a very loud crash outside the Institute. 

Martin almost fell out of his web in surprise when he heard the scream, scuttling through the hole in the roof to see what had made such a horrible noise in the first place.

On the pavement below was a familiar sight- the man from the Eye, now twisted at odd, unnatural angles on the pavement below him, dark crimson staining the concrete.

Martin was taken aback for a moment- he didn't think the man would show up again this quickly, much less dead. Fallen from a high height, Martin gathered, reconfirming with his spiders that his notion was correct.

Crawling down the near-invisible lattice of spider silk that covered the building, Martin carefully crept to the man's side, and was surprised to see that the man was still breathing in spite of the drop he'd obviously plummeted. His pupils dialated slowly, eyelids shutting as Martin shook his head and sighed softly. "Poor fool," he whispered, carefully setting a favorite red-kneed tarantula on his hand to start assessing his wounds. "Struck down on your first flight home, were you?"

By then, the man was unconscious, ragged breath shuddering out from under ribs Martin had no doubt were broken. 

Well, he couldn't just leave him here, could he?

As gently as he could, he picked up the broken body of the man from the Eye, carrying him back up and through the roof of the archive. He could weave and mend broken bones and bloodied flesh- after all, he had the strongest sort of bandage at his disposal, free of charge. 

First, he patched the wounds that bled dangerously, stitching them closed with the sticky, needleless thread from his spinnerets and bandaging them over with soft, gauzy cobwebs to keep the threads from tearing.

Next came the business of his broken shoulder, arm, leg, and ribs. Honestly, he was lucky to be in as few pieces as he was- perhaps the Eye had granted him luck as well as knowledge. He had his spiders bring him suitable materials to make passable splints, then got to work setting bones and securing them with generous layers of silk to keep them from bending out of place.

Limbs cared for, he carefully removed the man's ragged cardigan with the intent of at least taking a better look at his ribs and insure he wasn't currently bleeding out internally. 

It was then he saw the extent of the scars the man bore, forever etched into his skin by what must have been a hard life. Two twisting lines where his last pair of ribs should have been under, but were missing. Honeycomb patches of pockmarks, deep and roughly scarred over. A ring of scar tissue around the finger of one hand, a warped, twisting burn scar completely overtaking the other. The scars made him feel a certain sense of Déjà vu, another twinge of familiarity he couldn’t quite place but which burned into his mind.  _ Didn’t  _ he _ have that scar on his hand?  _ he wondered for a moment, before mentally slapping himself. He was being silly, making himself believe things that couldn’t be true.  _ He had left him alone, and he was not coming back. _

Satisfied with his work, he placed the unconscious man in the warmest corner of the web, pulling his assortment of quilts and comforters from around it to make a warmer, safer space for his guest. Once he had him settled within the arguably cozy hammock, he sent a few spiders to weave a bower around it- didn’t want him falling out of it, after all, especially given how hostile he’d acted  _ last time _ he’d woken up in Martin’s web. 

Still, he couldn’t shake the creeping feeling he  _ knew _ him from somewhere. He couldn’t help it, the resemblance in that stern, sad face pulled at some broken thread of memory, something pulled from his persistent nightmare he could never quite remember upon waking.

As he took one last look at the sleeper, he couldn’t help but ask one question, one that would be (at least at the moment) left unanswered.

  
“Who  _ are _ you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's back in safe(?) hands, though at this point it's mostly because Martin wants to know where the HECK he knows him from. Think Martin... You know this Martin...


	6. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes up, once again, in Martin's web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of the chapter is some clarification on the canon of this fic vs the canon of the show to keep the continuity clear moving forward, given what happened in MAG 160

Jon woke to a burning ache deep within his bones, feeling generally awful all over. He wasn't dead- it would take more than a 20-story fall to kill  _ the Archivist-  _ but although his patron fear granted him near immortality, he was not  _ invulnerable _ , and his healing abilities generally only kicked in just enough to keep him from dying or injuring himself specifically to spite Beholding.

Which meant broken bones and bruised muscles. Jon groaned, reaching his less-injured arm to pull one of the thick quilts up over his shoulders more to stave off the cold. 

Wait,  _ quilts? _

He sat up quickly, hissing in pain as his cracked ribs grinded together-  _ right, Jon, take it slow, you're hurt. _

Looking down at himself, he saw that yes, the pile of warm material was in fact a pile of quilts, comforters, and even a moth-eaten knit blanket on top of it all.

All of which glimmered with a film of silver threads.

He felt that familiar panic rise in his chest, choking any sound out of his lungs as he stared, horrified, at the cobwebs that stuck to his previously welcome source of warmth an security. As he struggled to understand, he started to register the sensation of  _ tightness _ over his broken arm, leg, and chest, his blood running ice cold as realization hit.

Slowly, he peeled the blanket cocoon off himself, looking down at his body underneath, and couldn't help the strangled sound that left his throat.

Spiderwebs.

He was wrapped in spiderwebs.

He felt his body go completely frozen, the weight of his fear crushing down on him far more than any encounter with the buried. His breath felt caught in his lungs, his heart felt like it might stop with how fast it was beating, terrifying him beyond the lengths of his already present severe arachnophobia. 

He was going to die here, he just knew it. 

His fears were seemingly justified when he looked up and saw, in the webs above him, a monstrously large spider, easily the size of a horse. It was still, as if resting or (as Jon thoroughly believed in the moment) biding its time to descend and sink its horribly large fangs into his flesh and end his life upon this world- he was sure it was a strong enough avatar to kill him, especially while he was at its mercy within its web.

Before he could make a full list of things he regretted not getting done in the day and a half he'd been back on this plane and not unconscious, the spider stirred, unfolding (or perhaps refolding) itself into the shape of Martin Blackwood. This was of little comfort to the avatar of Beholding- he knew better than to trust anything that dedicated its life purpose to any fear,  _ especially  _ the Web. To further his distrust, Martin had done…  _ something _ that made him sink into the sea of things he could Know, and by extension plummet and injure himself. He wasn't sure what power the spider monster had managed to get over him, but whatever it was he was  _ far _ from willing to let it continue its control over him.

He was snapped out of his thoughts as Martin lowered himself through the web on his own silvery string, stopping at eye level with Jon.

Jon tried to hide under the quilts with a distressed whimper, expecting Martin to pull him out and finish him once and for all.

Martin just chuckled sympathetically, carefully pulling back the corner of the blanket pile. "It's good to see you're alive- you gave me a bit of a scare, thought for a while that you might not make it-"

Jon did the best he could to worm further under the covers into the comforting shadows, instinctively opening all of his eyes and hissing in a remarkably pathetic attempt to scare the spider away. 

Martin did not leave.

Jon glowered at him, but all that did was make Martin’s face screw up in an awful attempt to keep himself from laughing, which did nothing but made Jon  _ more _ frustrated.

“Go away.”

“You know, you never told me your name.”

Jon was taken aback by Martin’s disacknowledgement of his demand, staring incredulously. “I don’t want to talk to any  _ spiders _ .”

“Yeah, well, tough. You crashed half-dead into my home twice within a six-hour timeframe and I still don’t know anything about you.”

“And you never will.”

“We’ll see, my fine feathered friend, we will see.”

Jon growled, starting to think the Web was trying to annoy him to death.

“What’s the point of knowing my name, anyways?” he accused, jutting a finger from under the blankets to point at Martin. “You’re just going to kill me anyways. There’s no point knowing who I am.”

“Kill y- dear God, what ever gave you that notion?!”

Jon threw off the covers in frustration, gesturing as much as he could to his body in spite of the pain. “Oh, I don’t know Martin, the fact I’m practically  _ mummified _ in webs couldn’t  _ possibly _ suggest you were going to eat me! What a  _ silly notion _ to think that I, wrapped up in goddamn spiderwebs, was going to end up as lunch for a gigantic fucking  _ spider _ who keeps insisting on talking to me like I’m not just some fly in his web! Wherever could I have gotten such a  _ hilarious  _ idea?!”

Martin silent for a long moment, before he slowly, sarcastically, started to clap.

"Well done. You've figured out my ploy. Yes, me going out of my way to pull you off the pavement, fix your wounds, and make as comfortable a bed as possible for you has all been a grand ploy to  _ eat _ you."

Jon felt his accusations die in his throat as he took in what Martin was saying, the gears finally turning in his skull.

"But… but the webs-"

"I was using them as  _ bandages _ , you twit. Seriously, the webbing is _ only  _ over your wounds, if you'd only take a second look instead of jumping to conclusions that are, with all due respect, unfounded and rude."

Jon sheepishly looked down at himself, the air escaping his lungs in a quiet "oh."

Martin sighed deeply, the tension in his shoulders relaxing a bit. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap, it's just- God, my emotions have been all over the place since I first met you, you- you crashed through my ceiling, and then you crash  _ again _ on my doorstep, and- it's hard, trying to keep someone from dying when you're built to kill, you know? And- and, well, every day a new apocalyptic force is showing up and I don't even know if  _ you _ aren't just another one of those monsters, though I guess at this point we both are-"

"Martin-"

"-And I don't even know  _ why _ I want to help you! I mean, even if it's not my usual diet it's not like I  _ haven't _ fed anyone to the Web before so I don't know why I really don't want to do that to you-"

_ "Martin." _

Martin fell silent, looking down at the Archivist with trepidation.

Jon looked him in the eye (as much as it made his stomach turn to do so) and feigned an admittedly weak attempt at a smile. "I  _ forgive _ you, Martin, even if I don't entirely believe any avatar of the Web."

Martin seemed relieved, which was enough to satiate Jon's momentary guilt, an emotion that was making him have doubts about his initial perception of Martin- which was  _ most likely _ Martin's plan to begin with, given his status as an avatar of the Fear of Manipulation (and also Jon's personal phobia, Spiders).

An awkward hush fell over both of them, a silence that covered and consumed the empty space between monsters. Martin eventually broke the stillness, standing up and scuttling off to who knows where to do who knows what. Jon took the opportunity to retreat back under his blanket cavern and hide like a feral animal brought into a human home.

When Martin returned, Jon thought he'd be upset in some way, given the silence of his approach, and that he'd come to confront Jon yet again over his harsh words.

Instead, Martin held out a cup of steaming liquid which, upon inspection, was revealed to be strong earl grey tea. 

Jon knew he shouldn't trust the drink, it was most certainly poisoned, but that aroma… there certainly wasn't any tea in Beholding, and if Martin was somehow telling the truth that meant he hadn't had tea for three decades, and even if it  _ was _ poisoned, he was bound to die here eventually anyways….

With his good hand, Jon reached out and grabbed the mug, pulling it back into his blanket cave and taking a hesitant sip.

And then another.

And then he found himself downing the drink, ignoring how it burned his tongue in the brief, fleeting euphoria of the long-forgotten comfort of a hot drink in a cold room. 

He sighed deeply, all his eyes closing as he felt the warmth deep through his insides, lending him a moment of old familiarity in all the confusion of the day. The feeling faded fast than he'd have liked, and the coldness of fear seeped back in, but it was offset by the moment of comfort that managed to linger at the very edges of his broad psyche. 

He handed the mug back to Martin, who stuck it to the closest sticky bit of web with one of those horrible spider legs, the likes of which made Jon flinch back into his plush cave.

Martin didn't speak as he crawled back away, and that gnawing feeling of unfounded guilt seeped back into Jon's gullet, twisting his stomach into knots (though that could have been the tea). It wasn't enough for him to chase down the man, but it did make him feel more miserable than he already was, hiding away in his little nest.

Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams plagued by snippets of memory long lost in the sea of Knowledge that filled his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT SO MAG 160 HAPPENED   
And because this fic is Canon Divergent, I want to clarify a few things for the sake of continuity:
> 
> \- This fic diverges at around MAG 158 meaning Melanie did gouge out her eyes (and is living with Georgie) but after the incident in the Lonely Jon and Martin don't immediately go on the run, the apocalypse didn't happen, etc. In this particular fic, MAG 160 didn't happen, instead everything continued to run as it did before until Jon burns down the Institute.  
\- Jon has been in the Eye for 30-ish years after burning down the Institute and "ascending" (this will be clarified with time)  
-the world is not ending, but there are a lot of monsters roaming around  
-Peter Lukas will not be in this fic (and is dead), Elias will most likely not show up and might also be dead.
> 
> Hope this helps with the future of this fic, I'm not planning on retconning anything so I thought I should at least let y'all know where this thing is heading lol


	7. Silk-Spun Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon settles in to life in Martin's web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy

Jon slowly lost track of how long he'd been back, both on this Earth and in Martin's web. Could have been days, could have been weeks, could have been all of eternity for what Jon could gather from his designated blanket pile. 

Martin came and went as he pleased, leaving Jon alone for sometimes days on end with enough food to keep his mortal body satiated. He assumed that Martin's willingness was a sign of trust, though most likely trust in his condition keeping him from wrecking the place rather than him as a person- after all, they were only a step away from being total strangers to one another. It would be foolish to think they had grown closer as people, given their limited interaction.

At least, that's what Jon  _ thought  _ until Martin returned one night, more disheveled than Jon had ever seen him.

Jon found himself up and out of bed as soon as Martin plopped himself down in the middle of his web, a shuddering sigh rattling through his exhausted frame. Jon didn't know why he approached, stepping carefully on the strong, non-sticky strands of silk, but he did so with less trepidation than ever before, kneeling beside the monster that still made him involuntarily shudder every time he saw him.

"Martin? Is… did something happen?"

Martin looked up at him blearily, his faded eyes showing the telltale glint of fear and despair. He looked away quickly, staring vacantly at his web. "It's fine. It's nothing."

"Martin, it's obviously not 'fine' or 'nothing'. You're hurting."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Martin…  _ tell me what happened." _

Jon's power was met with no resistance.

The words poured out of Martin like water through a broken dam, interrupted only momentarily by the click of a tape recorder whirring to life, Beholding keeping tabs on the world it had failed to claim.

Within his own sanctuary, Martin let himself become weak.

\--

After that night, a routine was set between the monsters.

Jon had felt Martin's admission filling him far better than any meal, Martin feeling the weight of his day lift from his weary shoulders as he put his troubled mind into words. Both were better off, at least for the moment. At least for tonight.

A strange sort of symbiosis formed between the Archivist and the Spider over the weeks- Martin unburdening the state of the outside world to Jon, and Jon feeding off the information given to him.

It took Jon longer than he would admit to figure out Martin had been intentionally feeding him. He hadn't suspected the Web avatar to know his needs- how could he have? Even if his face still bore a frustrating familiarity Jon suspected came from his past working at the late Magnus Institute, only a small handful of people knew  _ what  _ he was, and Martin was certainly not one of them. Nonetheless, when Martin specifically asked if he was hungry one night, without any sign of any kind of groceries or takeaway, Jon felt his heart skip a beat. Martin  _ knew _ , and he had a hard time recovering from the shock and embarrassment that followed, or the stiff apologies that only made Martin smile that infuriatingly familiar soft smile of his.

After that night, Martin made no attempt to hide that he knew the nature of their mutually beneficial arrangement, always having something to tell Jon when he came home. Some days, it was just how his day had been, or a pretty spider he found on his excursions (though he stopped mentioning arachnids altogether when he saw how queasy Jon looked, a fact Jon was grateful for). Some days it was the activity of the other powers' followers and avatars, usually when Martin came in absolutely miserable from running from them. Some days it was old poetry, lovingly written but never shown to any other living soul.

The poems were the most filling for Jon, and it confused him deeply. In all respects, they should not have even counted  _ as _ statements- they were meaningless in the grand scheme of things, fleeting expressions of emotions meant to fulfill the writer creative urges- but somehow he found more satisfaction from them than he did the most grisly account of supernatural terror. The poetry was, though objectively not the best, obviously coming from a place of sincerity, such raw emotional honesty that warmed him to the very core. His favorites, by far, were Martin's love poems, dedicated to someone the spider 'knew long ago', according to his own account. There was a certain longing to the way he spoke them, his voice full of yearning for the missing someone, that ran through his body like the buzz of plum wine in his veins. And yet, in the same stroke, he felt a strange sense of déja vu each time he heard one- he could have sworn he Knew each one, every work calling upon a memory he did not dare pursue into that horrible sea of Secrets Told. 

Every day, Martin's web became more familiar, and every day he felt calmer within it. Sure, he never stopped hating all of the spiders, and he knew he would most certainly never stop fearing them, but he realized he was less repulsed by Martin every day, more comfortable existing within his space.

His bones were mending, too- slowly still, but faster than he would had he still been mortal- and his bruises no longer discolored his skin. He got bolder over the weeks, too, adventuring out of his blanket pile to clamour up the web and look out the hole in the ceiling, gazing upon the city below.

Sometimes, Martin would be there too. 

Sometimes, they'd sit there, chatting idly or sitting in silence, until the first threads of sunrise spun themselves into the edges of the sky and the monsters of the night crawled back into their dark corners to wait out the days.

And sometimes, just sometimes, Jon's sleep would be blissfully dreamless.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is from Martin's POV I promise it's not just Jon from here on out
> 
> Edit: I totally forgot to mention, but there's a doodle that goes with chapter 6! You can check it out here:  
https://kettle-bird.tumblr.com/post/188772337447/jon-doesnt-like-spiders-even-ones-that-wear


	8. Mr. Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin hunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is big time one of the darker chapters. TW for minor character death and some monsters jazz.

The (not quite) stranger was asleep when Martin went hunting.

It had been an exciting evening for them both- Martin had determined the Eye avatar's leg and ribs to be healed enough to remove their bindings, and that his arm would soon follow suit. 

A few celebratory hours had exhausted the other avatar, and he'd retired back into his own nest of blankets, quickly slipping into sound sleep as Martin kept watch. Assured he was fast asleep and safe, Martin slipped through the ceiling and out into the night.

It was time to feed his patron Fear, after all.

It was true that the Web did not demand constant sacrifice- only the occasional stranger lead astray, right into its namesake trap- but given how much of his hunting required luck, waiting for a particularly gullible victim for him to lure back into his deadly home, he couldn't afford to miss out on a night on the prowl. 

As it so happened, it had been weeks since he had a successful catch, having been unable to catch anything more substantial than a few squirrels to feed himself (and by extension, the Web, he reasoned. He didn't like thinking about the blood on his hands for too long). He needed something big to quell the hunger of the monster he'd become, the fear he embodied.

He had a few places he could try, a few 'usual haunts' he could cast his nest at, but the safer options hadn't recently yielded more than that pack of unlucky squirrels. Dark corners and empty streets weren't cutting it anymore. He had to make a gamble.

Which is how he found himself at the grimy little pub, an untouched drink sitting in his hands. He wasn't here to drink- the cheap beer was, if anything, a prop, something to garner sympathy from the populus. His crestfallen face was not the one he normally wore, one of a man nearly on his sixtieth birthday- no, this was the face of someone half that age, a manipulation of perspective that used a lot of energy but he'd found quite effective in the past.

It didn't take much more in the way of power or energy to make himself a focal point in the room, to have himself be interesting in a way the other patrons at the pub could not explain. Once he felt eyes on him, he knew his trap was set.

It didn't take long for someone else to step into the range of his net. As he did, he focused in on him, letting the others in the bar forget about him.

The man looked to be in his early forties, if Martin had to guess- greying hair, worry-lined forehead, a bit of a gut. As they so often did, he sat down across from Martin, compelled by some unheard cue. "Something the matter? I swear I could feel your loneliness from across the pub."

"… Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you, if that's what you-"

"Oh no, you weren't botherin' anybody, I just wanted to know if you were okay."

Oh how Martin pitied the poor fool's kindness. 

"Well… tonight hasn't been my best night, in all honesty. Got stood up by my date," he sighed, staring down into his lager. It was, of course, all bullshit, but the man accepted it without second thought.

Over the next few hours, Martin got to know his victim. His name was Steven- nice enough bloke, worked as an accountant, no family and had apparently recently gone through a very messy divorce. Martin made sure to remember every detail given, as he did with every life he was forced to take by his Fear. This was a nobody- someone the world would forget even existed in the first place.

By the time they left the bar together, Martin had Steven wrapped around his finger.

By now, the latter, under the influence of both the power of the Web and of one too many drinks, had insisted on taking Martin home- "wouldn't be polite to let y'find your way back all by yourself, not with all th' monsters running around these days," he'd joked. "Y'know, you see it every other week on the telly, some poor drunk bastard ends up eviscerated by somethin' or whatnot! Every other  _ week _ , I tell you, Martin!"

_ If only you knew _ , Martin thought piteously,  _ you poor fool. _

Martin led him through the darkened streets of London, bringing him where the streetlamps flickered and died, to where the dark lingered just beyond their failing light. Steven was getting a little spooked by the night, he could tell, but as long as he could get him to the outermost reaches of his web, everything would work, would turn out okay.

"Ah, Martin? Where… where did you say you lived, again?" 

"Just up ahead, it's not far now…" 

Steven nodded, still glancing around nervously and pulling his coat around himself. "Good… bit chilly tonight, isn't it?"

"Just around the corner, not far at all now…"

Martin lead his guest down an alley, and by now he could see Steven's steps slowing down, hear his breath catch in his throat as he saw the huge spiderwebs that laced themselves across the walls of the darkened buildings the alley cut between.

Martin's heard him step back, and he turned to look at him, pointing a finger at his chest.  _ "Don't move." _

The man stopped in his tracks, quaking in fear as Martin dropped the illusion of youth, eight segmented legs unfurling from his back. Steven made a small sound of terror as Martin leaned in close, barely able to form cohesive sentences.

"What-  _ what the hell are you?!" _

Martin sighed sadly, putting a hand on his victim's shoulder. 

"If it's any consolation, I think you're a good person… and I'm sorry."

With that, Mr. Spider sunk his fangs into his guest's neck.

Steven managed to break through his command to not move as his fangs punctured deep into his flesh, struggling to get away from the monster, but Martin held fast, letting his venom work it's way into his poor victim's body. Eventually, Steven fell limp, his body shutting down as the toxin sent him into a coma. 

The hard part done, Martin hefted the body over his shoulder, carting his sacrifice off to a secluded shadow and out of sight to feed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know tarantulas are primarily ambush hunters rather than trap hunters?


	9. Blood Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes up to an unpleasant surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time, but a bit of fluff to tide you all over before we jump back into some darker stuff

Jon was in a foul mood from the moment a sharp pain woke him up.

He tried extending the injured wing, all three-hundred-thirty-six eyes on its surface closing in pain. A couple drops of red speckled the blankets beneath him, dripping from the white down on the underside of the wing, now stained crimson. 

Of course he had a blood feather. Just his luck, really. Even wings granted by an extradimensional divine personification of one of humanity’s most base fears were flesh and bone, still susceptible to the ailments of mortality. He had unfurled his wings to let them stretch out after being tucked away for weeks- and, it seemed, he'd slept on them wrong and broken a pinfeather in the process.

His thin fingers started rifling through the down of his wings, trying to root out the offending feather, but once he found it he found it stung too much to even touch it, much less yank it out, without a jolt of piercing pain shooting through the limb. His fingers came back a sticky red, bits of down stuck to their tips. Defeated, he slumped down with a loud sigh, glaring at the bloody, ruffled wing with utter discontempt.

He glanced around for Martin, but he was nowhere in sight, leaving Jon a strange mixture of disappointed and relieved- at least he wasn’t here to see him all bloodstained and unpreened, what would he have thought about him then? As soon as the thought of Martin's opinion crossed his mind, he shut it down- what did he care what Martin thought? He was just another monster- his  _ opinion  _ of Jon didn't matter when he himself was a horrible spider-thing. Somehow, these assertions didn't ease Jon's mind, much to his chagrin.

Keeping his wing elevated by leaning the tips of the flight feathers on the webs around him, he tried to go back to sleep, the pain keeping him restless and frustrated beyond belief. He just had to wait for it to clot, then pull it out. Nothing worse than a bad hangnail, he tried to convince himself, as he begged for sleep that refused to come.

After hours of sitting awake, Jon heard a familiar scuttling noise over the roof of the ruined Institute harkening the arrival of the other monster.

There was a strange, distant, almost _ feral _ look in his eyes as he clamoured down his web, something that tugged at the most familiar fear he knew, made his heart leap into his throat and choke the sound out of it. Jon felt himself flattening instinctively, staring wide-eyed in case the spider made a move to strike.

As soon as he looked at Jon, his expression went soft and worried, and Jon felt the fear melt like frost in the morning sun.

"Oh- oh dear, you're hurt-"

"I'm fine, it's not that bad..."

"You're  _ bleeding. _ Let me help you-"

_ "I'm fine, Martin." _

Martin flinched back as Jon snapped at him, his limbs tucking close to his body. Jon looked at him cowering, then sighed, lifting the wing to show him the underside. "It's just a blood feather. Nothing serious, it just needs to be pulled out. No worse than… than a bad hangnail."

Martin slowly crept forward, reaching out to touch the wing before flinching back, glancing up at Jon to make sure it was okay with him. Jon grumbled but shifted the edge of the wing into his hand, looking away so he couldn't see him wince.

Martin gently coaxed the huge wing into turning, letting him see the underside and the bleeding feather. Jon felt the pain spike slightly as Martin's fingers tried to separate the offender, his wing flinching automatically.

"Hold still," Martin soothed, voice as soft and sweet as clover honey. "I've almost got it out. This is probably going to hurt, but only for a moment…"

Jon braced himself as Martin's fingers pinched down on the bloody feathers, biting down on his arm as the spider, in one swift motion, pulled it from his wing in a burst of stinging pain that quickly calmed to a low throb.

“There,” Martin cooed, holding out the broken pinfeather for Jon to see, “all better?”

Jon glanced over his wing, gingerly smoothing his ruffled feathers before carefully folding it away. "... Yes. Thank you, Martin."

Martin flicked away the quill, climbing away with a soft, wordless smile to return to his hammock-web to rest out the coming day. 

Jon's eyes lingered on him with a feeling he might have once recognized as fondness as he himself settled back into his own 'bed', safe in a place that had once been his Patron Fear's house, that he now considered to be the closest thing to home he'd known in a long time. He watched something he'd once feared so much meld into familiarity and happiness. Perhaps it was the Web influencing his mind. Perhaps the Lonely had made moves on him, and this is how his mind was fighting back against it. Perhaps it was just some scrap of humanity worming its way back into his heart.

He didn't care.

Jon didn't know at the time, but he had fallen in love.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, blood feathers are a real thing and are caused when the sheath of an underdeveloped feather breaks!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comment if you got anything to say, I love reading your thoughts!


End file.
